How Would You Know?
by Face of Poe
Summary: !**SPOILERS**! for season 3 (Empty Hearse, specifically) Sherlock and Mycroft have a chat about John and bombs and loneliness. And that whole... "caring" lark. Just a short one-shot drabble-ish fic.


**A/N: **Short random drabble- just dialogue between Sherlock and Mycroft set post-Empty Hearse (so spoilers abound). Actually written before His Last Vow aired, though I'm just getting around to posting- I think it fits in nicely with their dynamic there, too (if I do say so myself). Hope you enjoy!

**A/N** (1/19): Now something of a companion piece with **Rarely So Lazy** and **Deal With the Devil**, other season 3 inspired ficlets.

**How Would You Know?**

"Thank heavens that's over with."

"I didn't think it so bad."

"_You_," Mycroft glared over the top of his tea cup, "did not have to sit through that infernal noise some common oaf once decided was not only music but _good_ entertainment."

Sherlock smirked, clearly pleased with himself; and he had reason to be, his brother conceded inwardly, though he would never express such to his already arrogant companion. "I noticed you rather downplayed your actions in the events beneath Parliament for Mummy's benefit." The detective's eyes narrowed, as if he sensed an impending trap. "Never thought I'd see you so… considerate… of another person's feelings, Sherlock. Is that how you got John to come 'round?"

"No, I pulled him out of a bonfire, as you well know."

"A day after you waltzed back into his life like nothing changed- a day after he assaulted you…" he looked Sherlock up and down a moment, "three times- he's kidnapped and nearly burned to death and _that_ inspired his forgiveness?"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "Not my fault the man has a danger fetish."

Mycroft sighed. "What did you do?"

A minute passed in silence in the quiet comfort of 221B. The flat was regaining much of its former eccentricity after so long unoccupied; perhaps more so, lacking the more domestic hand of John Watson to keep it in order.

At last, Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, and Mycroft leaned forward and smiled affably. "I'm sorry? I didn't catch that."

"I told him I couldn't stop the bomb."

He blinked. "You extracted his forgiveness by making him think he had minutes left to live. How very… touching."

"He was being stubborn."

"And you, dear brother, are the model of agreeability, I suppose?" That earned him a sly grin. "Why not simply tell him the truth?"

"The truth about…?"

"The direct danger to his life, had the wrong people caught news of your continued survival." Sherlock stared at him, expression blank. "Rather than let him carry on in his belief that you simply spent the last two years lurking just out of sight."

"I did tell him that."

The older brother smiled with faux patience. "In as many words? Or do you just assume that John's powers of inference are on par with your own?" Sherlock stood suddenly from his armchair and spun to face out the window. Tension radiated from his posture, his heavy breathing. "Sherlock?"

The detective turned back angrily. "_One word,_" he echoed John, "_that's all I would have needed_- I _gave _him exactly that! I told him it was a trick. He knew I was lying about being a fake, _why_ could he not just _listen _to the rest of it then?"

Brows furrowed, Mycroft tilted his head curiously. "You're angry with _him_. For being angry with you."

"Am not."

"And in one fell swoop in the Underground, you exact his forgiveness and a bit of revenge on his dense gullibility. Very shrewd of you, brother mine. Calculating; practically cruel."

"It's sorted now." At least he had the good grace not to deny it. "All is forgiven." On both fronts, presumably.

"A wonder, that, given how very near you two were to being blown up."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and sank back down in his chair, slouching terribly. "As the report surely stated- simple matter of an off-switch."

"And had it taken you just five more minutes to deduce the nature and location of the attack?"

He cocked his head sideways. "It is what you asked of me, to do your dirty work, the leg work you so despise."

"I asked you to discern the details of the plot, not to go standing- quite literally- on the bomb itself minutes before it was set to detonate."

"Careful, Mycroft, you almost sound as though you care."

"You know I do." Sherlock glanced up at him, shrugged lightly in affirmation, and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "You got it wrong, you know."

That drew his full attention at last, an assertion of Sherlock's erroneousness. He sat up sharply, eyes wide and confused. "Wrong? Got what wrong? When?"

Seizing his umbrella from where it lay beside him on the sofa, Mycroft stood and leaned against the prop, smiling lightly down at his brother. "I said I wasn't lonely; you implied I would not even know the difference." Sherlock's brow furrowed and he shook his head slightly, not following. "It was a long two years of your absence. Perish the thought that I found an excuse to bring you home only for you to nearly blow yourself up within seventy-two hours."

"I-"

"Must be off; Moran should be ready to talk. Do take care of yourself, brother dear."

And he swept from the room, feeling the sharp gaze of his younger brother against his back the entire way to the landing.

X-X

**A/N: **Thanks for reading my random thoughts!


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